The Breton tar lights up his duty-frees

and sniffs the smoke that sets his nose aglow

the chosen fruit is hued a bright cerise

all during Lent one fruit's the ratio

Remember friends those isles where live your Friese

where shoals of herring boats now lie below

that heap of goods occasions some unease

when from afar we see the bushes grow

We dry the fish sea bream or some burbot

the shark is smoked on beds of bergamot

while coming home we find the wind turned mean

All's sold the prawns the lobsters our whole stock

say sorry that no whales came back to dock

so we are cousins now to king baleen